Dark Light

37

27 September, Monday

Sunset 7:20 P.M.

Full Moon +1 rises 7:25 P.M.

Low tide 6:47 A.M.

Tropical storm headed our way, but weakening. Maximum winds, 40–50…

Chestra told me, “For the last week, I’ve had the feeling I’m being watched. Have you ever had that feeling, Doc?”

I said, “Yeah. When someone’s watching me.”

She laughed, sitting at the piano, and continued to play. We were settling into caricatured roles, as new friends do, our differences providing safe avenues of familiarity. I was the intractable realist, she was the urbane dame, expert at the social arts, but also an artist.

“I’m serious. It’s that eerie sort of feeling, like there are eyes floating around behind you in the darkness. I went for a walk on the beach last night and I would’ve sworn someone was watching me from the trees.” She was making light of it but serious. One of the maxims of recognizing danger is that, when instinct tells us something about a person or situation feels wrong, it is.

Maybe something was wrong. The night before, I’d noticed a big BMW sedan pass her drive slowly once, then again. I hadn’t mentioned it.

Now this.

“If you want, I can go out and have a look. Any idea why someone would be watching you?”

“Ten years ago, sure. These days, though…” She shrugged, still having fun with it but troubled.

“I’ll start keeping an eye on your house. Most nights, I go for a run, anyway, or ride the bike. I won’t bother you; no need for me to stop. If it’ll make you feel better, that’s what I’ll do. Oh—and start locking your doors when you go out. As a precaution.”

I was already making nightly visits to the dock where the Viking was moored—Jeth believed someone had snuck aboard, went through ships papers, and possibly stole some things. The boat was nearby, close to the lighthouse. Adding Chestra’s house to the list was no trouble.

The woman said, “Knowing that you’re keeping watch. Yes. Yes, I would feel safer,” not smiling now. “But, Doc? You are welcome to stop. Any night. Or every night.” There was a candelabra on the piano, six flickering candles. Her eyes locked onto mine briefly, gazing through the light with a smoldering focus. It had been happening more often during the last week—an abdominal sexual awareness, even though, intellectually, I knew it was absurd.

It was true the woman looked taut and fit. It was true, as Tomlinson said, she seemed younger as I got to know her. When the light was right, the age difference was more than manageable—she was lovely. But I had done some reading about the aging process. One of the papers was titled “Multi-disciplinary Approach to Perceptions of Beauty and Facial Aging.” It was written by a plastic surgeon, and it presented a mathematical graph model for aging. The shapes and sizes of our faces change, but some facial elements do not. I was confident I could guess Chestra’s age within three or four years.

No. The age difference was not manageable even if she were interested—a signal that, if sent, was too subtle for me to be certain.

Still…there were times the woman exuded sensuality that was as tangible as a low, vibratory tone. Especially when she was at the piano. Years ago, she’d been offered a Spanish villa in exchange for the intimacy of her body? I didn’t doubt it. I knew I had to maintain a distance or risk doing something impulsive that would embarrass us both.

It surprised me that, at times, it took a conscious effort.

D o you mind waiting just a few more minutes? I’ve got one little chord difficulty I’ve got to iron out, then I’ll sing the first verse for you, if you like.”

I was sitting at a desk opposite the balcony, reading while she worked on a new song. From the Sanibel Library, I’d gotten a book on military war medals, and also a couple of books about Nazi Germany, 1944, and the federal bank, or Reichsbank, in Berlin. I told Chestra I had seen something golden in the bowels of the wreck and asked if there was any mention in Marlissa’s diary about valuables carried aboard Dark Light.

There wasn’t, but Chestra offered to help with research. She was also helping with the legalities of salvaging the boat. Her family owned the vessel, according to maritime law, but there were still papers to file and an insurance company to contact. That’s why we’d been spending evenings together—six of the last eight nights. It also gave me a chance to update her on items we’d recovered from the wreck, which she enjoyed.

The electrolytic cleaning process was slow, but it was working. The gun-shaped object I’d found was in terrible condition, but enough remained to identify it as a German Luger.

The initials on the cigarette lighter looked like MC, followed by a letter that would possibly never be readable. Even so, Chestra was visibly moved when I brought the lighter for her to see, carrying it in a Plexiglas container of sodium hydroxide.

She was convinced it had been Marlissa Dorn’s.

Because I didn’t want to risk disappointing her, I hadn’t yet told Chestra that the flask-sized object Jeth found was silver. It appeared to be an ornate cigarette case, similar in size to the one Marlissa held in the photograph. Much of it was still covered by a sulfide patina. However, there was already a design visible on the case, and a portion of an engraved initial, too. I had Tomlinson take a look, and he said the design resembled a medieval cross.

That didn’t sound like something an aspiring actress would carry. But the initial might be an M—I would soon know.

“The lyrics aren’t quite right yet, and it may sound a little rough in parts. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Glancing up from my book, I told Chestra, “Sure. I’d like to hear anything you’ve written. Take your time.”

She brightened, began to play louder. I continued reading. We had followed the same routine for the last several nights.

Pleasant. A relief, too, because of a growing tension at Dinkin’s Bay, and other marinas in the area.

It had been six days since Javier Castillo’s funeral.

J avier’s funeral had been a miserable day of rain and weighted gray inferences. The sound of a storm wind is not dissimilar to the sound of fatherless children weeping.

The hurricane that had caused thousands to evacuate the area had stalled for days over Cuba, sopping the Pinar del Río region. It’d waited until most of the evacuees returned home before rolling down the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, sweeping the Sanibel area with heavy winds and more rain.

On the day of the funeral, we learned there was yet another tropical cyclone gathering strength off the Yucatán. The news added a sense of foreboding to an already dismal day. The relentless storms had come to feel like retribution.

They also made it impossible to make our second dive on Dark Light.

At the cemetery, there was a big turnout, close to a hundred people. The rage Mack had mentioned was in attendance, too. Javier had been one of fewer than two dozen full-time fishing guides on the islands, employed by a half-dozen marinas. Unlike some areas of Florida, the guides here are a brotherhood, ready to help when one of their members is in need. The same was true when it came time to bury a colleague.

During the service, the guides gravitated into a tight little group, Jeth and Nels among them, sun-hardened men, their dark faces hollow-eyed in the rain. They were out of work. Out of money; some still homeless. The storm had exposed institutions they’d trusted—insurance agencies, FEMA, banks—as cold-blooded adversaries, indifferent to what was equitable. Now one of their favorite members had been killed trying to claim what was his, a symbol of their trade, a workman’s boat.

Rage was in them. It radiated from a casket epicenter.

The man who’d shot Javier had not been arrested. In fact, he was being congratulated in local letters to the editor. The marina that had stolen Javier’s boat still had his boat, plus a couple hundred others. Law enforcement did nothing. Government did nothing.

Arlis was at the funeral, and I heard him mutter, “Forty years ago, that marina would of burnt to the ground, accidental-like. A man who murdered a fisherman trying to make a living? He’d have burnt up with it. Who’s the law when there ain’t no law? Some damn storm? And we got another hurricane coming!”

Tomlinson and I had exchanged looks. Burn the guilty, sacrifice the unfaithful. It was a subject we’d been discussing. More than a month before, he’d described an epic storm as cleansing. Like celestial light. On recent nights, over beer, we’d debated his claim’s validity or silliness. There was so much conflicting stuff in the news. Some religious groups said the relentless weather was Florida’s punishment for attracting fun-loving sinners. Political groups blamed the storms on the indifference of their political opposition. There were academics who believed we’ve screwed up the biosphere so badly we were finally paying the price. Radio talk show hosts said the weather had nothing to do with global warming, and, in fact, proved there was no such phenomenon.

When destructive events occur in series, instinct demands that we assign blame, and the standard is always human based. After a season of famine or storms, mountain gorillas and dolphins do not instinctively make blood sacrifices to mitigate fear or guilt. We do.

I told Tomlinson that we blame ourselves because we’re terrified of the truth: Life is random. There is cause, but there is no design.

Tomlinson stood fast. “There’s always a reason. By assigning blame, we actually accept blame.” It was a form of sacrifice, he said.

Usually, that’s about as close as we come to agreeing.

I was reading about Nazi gold as Chestra worked on her new song. She would play a few slow chords, humming softly, then stop, make a notation on a yellow legal pad, then return to the keys. It gave the impression that creating music was a combination of architecture and artistry.

The music was backdropped by wind gusts and surf. The moon was full, and through balcony windows I could see trees wild in the wind, branches writhing.

Another bright and stormy night.

The tropical depression that had formed off Yucatán had drifted northwest, vacillating between a category 1 hurricane and a tropical storm. In the Caribbean Basin, a far more dangerous cyclone—the twelfth of the season—was already hurricane strength, with a well-formed eye. It probably wouldn’t be a threat, but we wouldn’t know for a week or two.

The tropical storm, though, was headed right for us, but it hadn’t rallied mass or intensity. Now only a day or two away, maximum winds were fifty m.p.h., and the system was weakening. Even so, people were evacuating, lining up to buy gas they didn’t need and canned foods they’d probably never eat. The reverse was also true: There were people who would do nothing no matter how much warning they were given and no matter how violent the storm.

Chestra, as usual, was unconcerned. She left her shutters open, as if inviting the storm inside. My home and lab were still boarded up from the previous hurricane, my generator fueled and ready. I was content to sit and read.

…as German troops stormed Europe they looted bank reserves and took the gold to Berlin. Victims of the Holocaust were robbed of gold jewelry, even gold tooth fillings. All gold was melted, then recast into bars imprinted with the mark of the German central bank: an eagle clutching a swastika in its talons, and the words Deutsche Reichsbank.

By 1944, high-ranking Germans realized the war was lost. The president of the Reichsbank ordered the country’s massive gold reserves to be secreted to the village of Merkers, south of Berlin, and concealed underground in a potassium mine. The mine was also used to store art treasures looted from conquered nations.

The village was captured by the U.S. Third Army commanded by General George Patton, and the door to the mine was blasted open. Inside, troops found 8,198 bars of gold bullion, plus gold coins and silver bars. The total value today would exceed a billion dollars.

Also, at least nine tons of gold were sent to Oberbayern, including 730 gold bars, thought to be hidden around Lake Walchensee. Some fell into the hands of U.S. GIs.

Few realize that the United States plundered Germany’s assets as an official strategy of the war effort. Today, several thousand paintings from Germany are stored in a vault at the U.S. Center of Military History. Joseph Goebbels’s 7,000-page diary resides in the Herbert Hoover Library…

On a smaller scale, many U.S. enlisted men—particularly those in supply and procurement units—figured out that it was easy to box up treasure they plundered and simply mail in back to loved ones via U.S. transport ships. Or carry it with them in their liberty bags. It’s estimated that Nazi gold and artifacts worth many millions left Germany in this way. Little of it has been accounted for…

“Doc? Do you mind? I’d like to play this for you now. It’s the first song I’ve written in…well, forever, it’s been so many years. It’s only the first verse and refrain, and it still needs work, so don’t expect too much.”

I closed the book. “I’m an easy audience because I’m already a fan. But can I ask a question before I forget? Did Marlissa have any friends or family who were U.S. servicemen during the war? Men who were close enough they’d trust Marlissa to keep a secret.”

“Well…I suppose so. I’m not sure. Nearly every able man served in the military.”

“What about your uncles?” I had seen photos on the walls of men in uniform.

“Yes. They were all Navy men, except for Uncle Clarence. He was in the Army. That’s why Marlissa lived here alone during the war years. They were all active duty, but I don’t think any of them served overseas. Of course, there were lots of soldiers and airmen stationed at bases around the area. Marlissa did USO volunteer work—she had no shortage of admirers among the troops, I’m sure.”

I was thinking it through. Even if a GI had mailed Nazi plunder to Florida, what was it doing aboard the boat that night?

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m still trying to account for the diamond insignia we found. Unless Roth or your godmother bought it, how did it get aboard? Gold, though, that might be easier to explain, if it’s there.” I tapped the book. “According to this, small-scale smuggling was common in 1944. If soldiers found something they wanted, they boxed it and shipped it back to the States.”

“Kiddo, I’m no expert on the war years in this area. The person who’d know more is Arlis Futch. You should ask him.”

I said, “Yeah, Arlis, he’s quite the talker.” Then added softly, “How do you know him?”

Chestra laughed and shook her head, scolding me because of my tone. “You silly man—you are so suspicious. You told me about the old guy who ran the boat when you found Dark Light. That’s the name you mentioned, Arlis Futch. Remember? You don’t remember. Doc? Are you having one of your bad headaches again?”

The night before, I’d asked her for aspirin, and told her why. My head was pounding, but I said, “No, I’m fine.” I was looking at her, still thinking about it. Tonight she was wearing a blue sequined vest over an ankle-length gown of paler blue. Her blond hair was down, framing the symmetry of cheeks and chin. It made her look younger.

I changed the subject. “Why don’t you play? The first song you’ve written in years? I’d be honored.”

“All right, I will. It’s not finished, so be gentle.”

She had made a drink for me, rum and soda, with juice from a whole fresh lime and lots of ice, in a large tumbler. I sat back comfortably, hearing the wind outside. When she began to play and sing, though, I heard only her.

Sit here next to me

Tell me what is real

Part of you I see

You try to conceal.

Do you have a secret place

Too dangerous to touch?

Still my beating heart

Loves you so much.

Through the world we spin

To come back again

The seagulls glide

The endless tide

And my body’s yours

Safe and warm

In my dreams.

Still my beating heart

Loves you…

When she ran out of lyrics, she continued to play for a while before saying, “I finished only the first verse and the refrain. What do you think?”

I said, “Play it again, would you mind? Please.” I was aware that I’d spoken so softly it was almost a whisper.

As she began to play and sing once more, I stood, left my drink on the table, and walked to the piano. It was not a conscious movement. Tomlinson was correct. Her music was hypnotic.

I waited several long breaths after she’d finished before I spoke. I had no idea why I was standing so close to her. “The lyrics. Is there a person…a man? Was there a man you’re writing about—?”

She turned. Her shoulder brushed my thigh as she looked up into my eyes. Her right hand knew the keys and continued playing only the melody as she half sang, half spoke the words. “Do you have a secret place/Too dangerous to touch?/Still my beating heart/Loves you so much.” The music stopped. Her shoulder was a weighted warmth. “Yes. There is a man. It’s you, Doc. Of course it’s you. You must know that. Are you offended?”

“No. But the meaning of the lyrics—”

“It’s what I see in you. It’s what I feel. There’s something in you that’s dangerous. Not mean, not vicious. But dangerous. Am I wrong?”

I didn’t reply.

Her hand moved from the keyboard to my lower back. Her cheek made brief contact with my trousers just above the thigh, close enough to feel her breath as she spoke. “You’re not the only one who looks for the truth inside people. You’ve been so busy trying to figure out what’s real, what isn’t, you didn’t realize I was taking a look inside you, too. When a person’s heart is bigger and stronger than most, it’s usually because their secrets require so much space.”

My hand had found the back of her head; my fingers already seeking, then massaging, her neck. Her fingers moved to the muscles in my lower back, each fingertip alive, intuitive.

Silence can imply a question; it can also refuse an answer.

I removed my hand from her neck abruptly, and said, “Chestra, I’ve got to get going. I…I have to see Tomlinson. See Tomlinson about a business matter. I want to hear the rest of your song next visit. Okay? But I’ve got to go now.”

“I’ve upset you. I hoped you’d be flattered. I’m sorry; forgive me.”

I was moving away, motioning for her to stay seated. I knew my way to the stairs. “Forgive you? There’s nothing to forgive. Really.”

There was an undertone of loss, but also resignation, when she replied, “Of course. We’re friends, it’s not necessary.” She tried but failed to be the glib hostess as she added, “I’d forgotten. There are only two sins that women are never forgiven: infidelity, and aging. Anything else, there’s no need to ask.”

She laughed.

I hurried to the door.